It was a good job.
Close to town. Regular pay.
Room and board. A good job.
Don’t look at me, I wasn’t the first one;
other Shinnobs had done it before me
and all things considered I didn’t mind it
even if it was at a goddam Indian school.
The boys? They were all right, the boys,
and we all got along when they kept their noses clean.
And when they didn’t, there wasn’t anything new,
nothing I didn’t see before, those hellish days
I was a boy at Indian school, myself.
Runaways fighters young
blanket-ass Indians sneaking around
like their ceremonies were a big secret from me
talking Indian under their breaths
like I couldn’t understand what they were saying.
I took care of all that,
and when I caught some of them
having a little Indian dance out in the woods
I took care of that, too.
Every one that I beat
the ones who cried and the silent ones
the ones who broke
the ones who disappeared into themselves
they all acted like I didn’t know myself
what a beating was. What did they think,
I was born knowing how?
I went to goddam Indian school, too.